Knight of the Meek
by Paulie VonDoom
Summary: Superman must team up with Bruce Wayne and Captain Marvel to save Christmas for poor children around the world.


In the mighty city of Metropolis the wind chill factor made a forty nine degree day seem like twenty five. If the denizens of this fair city noticed (or cared,) they did not show it. They moved with the hurried bustle of any major city in America. If there was one thing different about the people on this particular day it was this: Each of them knew it was the first shopping day of the Christmas Season, and as such, foot traffic had increased dramatically since Thanksgiving weekend.

He hurried. It was almost time for work. The coffees in both hands let out a tiny sliver of steam from the small holes in the top of the lids. People sure were crammed together on the streets today! He mumbled a few "excuse me, Ma'am's" and "sorry, sirs" to those who inadvertently got in his way or whom he had clumsily bumped into because he was keeping an eye on the coffee cups and not the people directly in front of him. A large group of tourists snapped pictures with their smart phones of the window displays in the department stores, others stood with their jaws agape at the seventy five foot Christmas tree which had been erected shortly after the Metropolis Thanksgiving Day Parade and lit (in his opinion a week too soon, why was there always such a rush around the holidays?) in the center of the Daily Planet Building. The colossal golden globe, a symbol of the paper's endurance through even the worst of times, spun ad infinitum in the square near the tree.  
He waited for the "walk" signal and crossed when it began to blink. His steps were more like an old man's shuffle due to the crunch of the morning commuters, shoppers, tourists, and a group of school children on a field trip to see the tree. He looked at his watch, careful not to spill the caffeinated elixir in the cup he held in his left hand. Just about nine. Great.

Perry wasn't going to be happy, but then again, when was Perry happy about anything?

*  
"KENT!" Perry White roared, his portly face was red with irritation. He desperately wanted a cigar but wasn't allowed because the wimps on the city council decreed smoking was no longer allowed in any building within the city limits of Metropolis. He set his gaze on the people sitting before him. The years hadn't been too kind to print newspapers and the Daily Planet was no different. Just twenty years ago the bullpen was filled with young and hungry journalists looking to make a name for themselves with that one lucky scoop. Now, those same kids took jobs working from home writing for websites and mommy blogs (Perry still couldn't figure out what the hell a mommy blog was, no matter how many times Lois tried to explain it,) and the number of people still at the planet had dwindled so much that when he roared his irritation (something that happened a lot more these past few years,) it echoed in the back of the room.  
"For the love of God, where in the hell is Kent?" Perry asked no one in particular. His gaze fell to the kid who knew him best. The young man with the slicked red/blonde hair and freckles who still, after all these years, wore a different colored bow tie every day (today was navy blue with snowflakes.)

"I don't know, chief." Jimmy Olson, said. He was senior photographer now. Perry could remember when he first came to work for the Planet when he was just eighteen as a freelancer. Jimmy had won several major awards for photography in the years he worked for Perry. As gruff a man as Perry White could be, he had always taken a shine to Jimmy. Heck, he had taken a shine to all of the kids who had shown him loyalty and produced the results that bought newspapers.

The sound of a man tripping, falling, and knocking over a desk was heard near the entrance to the bullpen. A few of the writers gasped. Jimmy cringed. Lois Lane simply rolled her eyes. A few seconds later the distinct aroma of fresh, hot coffee wafted through the room.

Clark Kent had arrived for work at the Daily Planet.

Clark sat down in between Lois and Jimmy, his tan overcoat a Rorschach test of Columbian breakfast blend and Blue Mountain Bold. His broad shoulders were hunched in defeat and a sheepish smile rested on his blushed face.

"Have a nice trip, Smallville?" Lois whispered. She grinned as she poked him gently in the ribs with her elbow. "That's two cups you owe me now."

Clark mumbled an apology and looked up at Perry, whose face was now turning a shade of purple.

"Now that you've finally graced us with your presence, Kent, we can move on to your assignment." Perry shook his head, "Since you are a full fifteen minutes late, you'll be writing the fluff piece for the holidays."

A few of the veteran reporters let out a sigh of relief. The holiday fluff piece was usually some saccharinely sweet drivel about peace on earth and good will towards men, nothing worse than being stuck writing about some toy drive for a month when you could be reporting on something juicy like the Batman of Gotham or President-elect Luthor's latest scandal.  
As a surprise to absolutely no one, Clark smiled and said "Yes, Chief." A few of the younger reporters sitting in the bullpen rolled their eyes. For a senior reporter with a Pulitzer Prize, Clark Kent was quite the goody-goody. He also loved this time of year and his Christmas spirit could be infectious.

Perry went on, "Kent, this year I want you to go down to the Metropolis post office and speak with the Post Master there about letters to Santa from less fortunate kids. Take a few of them with you and we'll set up a gift drive here at the Planet. Make this article as heart wrenching as you can, use that Kansas charm of yours, really tug at the heartstrings." Perry Paused for a moment and let out a gruff "Dismissed!" and the reporters began stirring and chattering, a few bolted from the bullpen, eager to get to their assignments.

Clark took his time standing up, he had taken out a handkerchief from his suit pocket and was wiping the still dripping coffee from his overcoat.

"Sorry about that, Lois." He said, "I guess I didn't see the extension cord on my way in."

Lois smiled, "with glasses that thick, I'm surprised anything escapes your sight."

"How about I buy you lunch to make it up to you?" Clark asked.

Lois chuckled, "No can do, Smallville. This ace reporter is heading to Lexcorp to cover president elect Luthor's press conference."

A pang of dread ran through Clark's spine. Come January he was going to be a very busy (Super) man. He turned to Jimmy, "How about you, Jimmy?"

Jimmy flashed an easy, boyish smile, "no can do, Mr. Kent. I'll be photographing president-elect Luthor along with Ms. Lane here."

Clark nodded, "Happy hour then, first round's on me."

"Deal" Jimmy and Lois said in unison. The three Daily Planet employees laughed together, said their goodbyes, and went their separate ways.

Clark arrived at the Metropolis post office at half past ten. It was already starting to fill with people. Clark was glad he called ahead and scheduled the meeting with Jack Carruthers, the Post Master General. He greeted Clark in the lobby of the old, Art Deco post office which has been erected in 1858 and redesigned in that old style in 1935.

Jack Carruthers approached Clark with an outstretched hand and greeted him with a hearty handshake. Carruthers was middle aged African American man with a pot belly and a receding hairline of retreating snow white hair. He smiled broadly at the Daily Planet reporter.

"It's very rare we get a Pulitzer prize winning reporter here to do a story about us." He said, "it's a real pleasure."

Clark smiled, "the pleasure is mine, though I think you're going to be slightly disappointed. This article is about less fortunate children and their letters to Santa Claus."

Carruthers frowned, and at first Clark thought he was disappointed in the subject matter of his article. "Mr. Kent, you might want to follow me into the Dead Letter Office. I have something to show you."

Clark raised an eyebrow over his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. "Oh?"  
"Come with me."

Clark followed the portly Post Master into the back of the post office and into a small room simply marked "DEAD LETTER". He unlocked the door with a key from his massive keyring. The smell of old paper, pulpy and sweet hit Clark's nose.

Carruthers walked over to a large bin filled to the brim with letters, most of them were the standard white envelopes but a few were pink or yellow or blue. "I've been with the post office since I'm nineteen years old, Mister Kent. Every year we get letters to Santa Claus and every year we put them in here. Last year though, something strange happened."

Clark pulled out a small notepad and a pencil from his suit pocket, "what happened?"

Carruthers' face fell a bit, "they stopped writing to Santa and started writing to Superman. Almost every letter in here is addressed to the Man of Steel himself."

Clark was both amused and dismayed at the same time. "What do you mean, 'almost'?"

Carruthers let out a small, sad chuckled, "Some are addressed to Batman, some to Wonder Woman or the Flash, there's a few in there addressed to Captain Marvel. Heck, one of 'em is addressed to Aquaman, if you can believe it."

Clark rubbed his chin and let out a "hmm."

Carruthers continued, "in my spare time I liked to go through the letters this time of year. Shoot, we get them all year 'round."

"You don't say."

Carruthers nodded, "Indeed I do. These letters are from poor kids all across the country. Most of them don't have nothin'." He took one of the letters out from the bin and opened it. He took the letter out of the envelope, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pair of reading glasses. "This one says 'Dear Superman, My name is Melinda and I have been a good girl all year. Last year I wrote a letter to Santa asking for a new space heater for our apartment, but he must have gotten too busy because he never came. I left him a cookie and a carrot and everything! Mommy lost her job and we don't know where my daddy is and we're still really cold. I don't want no presents for me, just a space heater so my mommy and me won't be cold anymore. Love, Melinda.'" Carruthers looked distraught, "there are thousands of letters just like this one, Mister Kent."

Clark nodded solemnly, "Tell me, Mister Carruthers, why do you suppose these children are writing letters to Superman and not Santa Claus?"

Carruthers thought for a moment, he heaved a sign and said, "Well, Mister Kent, if you ask me I think it's because Superman is real and Santa isn't. These kids see Superman flying around on the news saving people or lifting a city bus over his head with one hand and fighting bad guys and they know for sure he's good and true. Superman never disappointed them on December 25th. They believe in him because they know him. Shoot, if I was in dire straits like some of these kids I'd probably write to him too. Him or the Green Lantern." He let out a small laugh.

Clark took a step towards the bin and picked up a few letters. He knew what needed to be done. For a solitary moment, his heart wept for the children.

"Mister Carruthers, would you mind getting me some boxes? I'd like to bring some of these letters back to the Daily Planet for my article." Clark said.

Carruthers nodded, "Sure, Mister Kent. I'd be happy to. Let me go grab some from out front." Carruthers went out the door quickly, closing it behind him.  
In a voice which was barely a whisper Clark said, "This looks like a job for Superman." he paused, his gaze settled on the bin stuffed with letters, "But I'm going to need some help.

There are cities and there are seasons, and sometimes you don't really know one without the other. Such it was with Gotham and winter. The city always seemed to be gray; a damp ache always willing to settle into your bones. Even when the Gotham Knights took the field in the heyday of summer, the clouds clogged the sky to watch.  
But in winter that all changed. As the Christmas marketing blitz started, a fever would infect the city. As potent as Crane's fear toxin or Joker's laughing gas, the singing would start. Even as you watched a man break into a jewelry store at 2AM on a Tuesday, he'd still be whistling along to the "Carol of the Bells."  
Gotham was hard and sometimes you'd catch visitors from Central City complaining that everyone was carved from coal. But it wasn't true. Gotham may be hard, but give its people time and they became diamonds.  
And that brought Bruce Wayne's thoughts back to present day as he listened to the continued monotony of his meeting. It was the annual breakdown of Wayne Industries charity donations for the holidays. The orphanages, the work aide funds, the homeless shelter down by Crime Alley that Leslie still ran. They were even getting a new building for Deacon Blackfire's soup kitchen to provide for more of the needy.  
Bruce's eyes flickered away from the charts Lucius droned over and to the wide windows staring out over Gotham. Red cape. Blue suit. And a sign.

"We need to talk"

And then just air.  
"Lucius, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I think Jeff over here is about to fall asleep. Let's break for lunch?"  
Lucius Fox sighed heavily, his frame visibly sagging at the thought of coming back to his presentation. "Whatever you think, Mr. Wayne."  
"Thanks Lucius. Alright everyone, let's meet back here in one hour. I've got some business to take care of while we break. An old friend just flew in from out of town."

They stood atop the roof of Wayne enterprises. The biting wind sunk it's teeth into Bruce but if it actually bothered him, he didn't show it. He knew Clark was unaffected by such trivialities such as hot and cold. He floated about a foot in the air, his fantastic red cap flapping majestically in the bitter air.

"You didn't have to get dressed up for me." Bruce quipped, "What is it? Darkseid? Doomsday?" His heart quickened. Usually when Clark showed up like this it meant trouble. A tendril of excitement raced up his spine. It had been quiet lately. A little too quiet.

Superman smiled. It was an easy smile. One built entirely out of good natured Midwestern charm and all- American optimism. "No. Things right now are stable. I am here because of these." He produced a small stack of letters held together by a rubber band. He handed them to Bruce.  
Bruce removed the rubber band and flipped through the letters. Each one addressed to the Batman in child's handwriting. A few were done in done in crayon but most were done in pencil. Irritation flashed on Bruce's face. He didn't have time for this.  
"They stopped writing letters to Santa Claus," Superman said, "They're writing to us now."  
Bruce sighed, "For the love of God, why?" He said, the irritation on his face transmutated into his voice, "Clark, I…"

Superman interrupted him, "I know this is a hard time for you Bruce, but these children need our help."

Bruce knew where this was going. As much as he admired his old friend, as much as he trusted his old friend (in the way Bruce Wayne could trust anyone,) stuff like this always got on his nerves. "So?" Bruce said, "They have parents, don't they?"  
For a moment, Superman looked both hurt and angry at his old friend's insensitivity. It was gone in a flash. "Some do. Some don't. They're writing to us because they don't know who else to write to." Superman finally settled on the roof, "It's Christmas, Bruce. I read every single one of these at the dead letter office. These aren't kids asking for frivolities or the latest video game system or anything like that. These are poor children who have nothing. Heck, they have less than nothing."

Bruce frowned, "Not my problem, Clark." He looked away from the Kryptonian.

"No," Superman said, "I know it isn't but I have an idea and in order for me to make it work I need your help."

"My money, you mean." Bruce said, there was a hint of bitterness in his voice. "I knew from the second you pulled out those letters where this was going. I can tell just by looking at the lines on your face, your posture, and tone of voice."

Superman's face turned a slight shade of red. He often forgot about Bruce's uncanny deductive reflexes. Cultivated through years of hard work and study. It was the closest thing to a super power he had. "I've done some calculations and it would only be five million and I'm sure…"

Bruce roared, "Five million!?"  
Superman was nonplussed by Bruce's tone, "Yes. The way I see it, a man worth nineteen billion dollars could spare it to help these children."  
Bruce's brow furrowed, "You don't mean just the kids in Metropolis, do you?"  
Superman grinned. Bruce groaned.

"Listen, Clark. If this were any other year I would consider it. Never mind that my parents were murdered three days after Christmas, never mind that what you're asking is completely insane and would require a tremendous logistical effort by all parties involved, never mind that I haven't celebrated Christmas since Dick was murdered. Never mind all of that. I can't do this because I'm being audited by Congress." Bruce's hands were shaking slightly. It had been a long time since he had mentioned Dick outloud, let alone his parent's murder in the same sentence.

"What!?" Superman said, "Why?"

Bruce heaved a sigh, "Luthor. Something about our dealings with Lexcorp. Since he's the president elect, they want to make sure there aren't any conflicts of interest, which means until after the hearings in Congress, any large withdrawals with need to be examined. How do I explain that to Congress without giving away that I'm the Batman or that I know Superman personally?"  
"I see." He knew Bruce wasn't lying, even though he knew Bruce had a tendency to keep things pretty close to the vest.  
"Besides, all the charity I do now is through Wayne Enterprises and we've given away over three million this year. I've done my part." Bruce turned his back on Superman.

"Surely there must be something you can…"  
"No, Clark!" Bruce said, louder than he would have liked. He turned and shoved the letters back to Superman. A few of them scattered in the wind. "I'm sorry. This is a stupid idea."  
Now it was Superman who frowned, "think so?"

"I know so." Bruce said.

Superman's frown turned back into that All-American Kansas smile, "I think there's someone out there who would beg to differ."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Who?" Suddenly it dawned on him.  
"Oh no." He groaned.

If Metropolis is the shining city on the hill, the beacon of hope, prosperity and light and Gotham was her dark and brooding yet beautiful sister then Fawcett City was the ugly stepchild of the Tri-State. Once, it was the booming crown jewel in the triple crown of cities. During World War Two they say the lights never went out in Fawcett City and that it constantly hummed with war time production. The auto industry settled in Fawcett City and reaped the benefits throughout the boom years of the 50's and 60's but that prosperity could not last forever as the captains of industry's hearts filled with the poison of greed and vice. Corruption as the municipal and state level ran rampant as the auto unions were gutted, backed by equally corrupt (and spineless) union bosses who forfeited their worker's hard earned rights for bonuses and raises for themselves.  
The Malaise of the 70's, and the emergence of Japan as a major economic power signaled the death knell for Fawcett City as the last car plant closed its doors and shipped production to Mexico. The city, once the rival of Detroit in terms of auto production was now, for all intents and purposes, dead broke.  
Pass any given street in Fawcett city and you'll find at least three houses burned to the ground. Poor folks who couldn't afford to pay their mortgage burned their homes for the insurance money. Businesses closed up and the shop windows, once filed with trinkets and treasures that even the most low level auto worker could afford (on an installment plan, of course,) were broken or boarded up. One or two boards had the words "God Save Fawcett City" spray painted on them. Homeless men and women sat on the old Beck-Parker library steps, calling it home for the night. A roving pack of dogs, ribs showing, scrounged the meager offerings of a nearby trashcan.

The sky was gray, hard, threatening not snow or rain, but a messy, stubborn sleet which would freeze overnight. Public works would do their best to salt the roads but to no avail, there simply wasn't enough municipal funds to treat the roads these days.

In the boom years, the mighty Christmas tree, taller than both the trees in Metropolis and Gotham would be erected and lit right after Thanksgiving. No more. The city could no longer afford to keep most of their police force, let alone a tree or the electricity to light it. Each year the city got poorer and each year the people lost a bit more hope. President Elect Luthor ran on a campaign of bringing long gone jobs back to places like Fawcett City, under the lofty promise that he would, as he stated, "Make Fawcett City Great Again". The poor folks, looking to cling to anyone or anything to make their situation better and give them some semblance of pride and maybe get rid of the corrupt bums who sold them out so long ago voted in record numbers for Alexander Luthor.

Billy Batson sat on the stoop of the Fawcett City Orphanage. He breathed visible steam and thrust his hands in his pockets of his red hoodie. He didn't mind the cold but it was going to start sleeting soon and he hated being both cold and wet. He could be cold OR wet, but not both at the same time. He had homework to do, introductory algebra, but the Big Guy would do it for him after his he met with his friends, who had just pulled around the corner of Fifth and Main.  
It was rare for anyone to drive a nice car in Fawcett City, let alone the black Rolls Royce that pulled around the corner. Fawcett City residents on the street stopped what they were doing, their jaws agape at such a symbol of riches and luxury. A few pointed, some spat on the ground, a few pointed. Once child tried to run after the beautiful car but was stopped by his mother and scolded.

The car parked in front of the Orphanage. Billy frowned. He really didn't like to draw any attention to himself but his friends insisted on driving here instead of flying.  
The old man exited the driver's side first. Though he looked to Billy like he was a million years old, he moved with the spry energy of a man in his forties. He wore a chauffer's hat over thin gray hair and a modest black suit and black bow tie hid a reserved frame. He went around to the passenger side and opened the door.  
Billy rolled his eyes.  
Bruce Wayne, the richest man on the east coast, the man who could (probably) buy and save Fawcett City with his pocket change, stepped out of the car. He was dressed as Billy figured a super rich guy like him would dress. Long cashmere coat and a suit that cost more than most Fawcett City residents made in a year. Clark Kent, the reporter, came out next. He was dressed a bit less lavishly. Billy smiled. He really liked Clark and it was rare to see him like this. He just wished for a moment that it was just Clark who was coming to visit, but when Superman contacted the Big Guy the previous night, Billy knew he'd have to deal with Batface too.  
"Keep the car running, Alfred." Bruce said.

"As you wish, Master Bruce." Alfred said, his accent was thick and very, very British. Billy liked Alfred. Whenever there was a Big Mission with his other friends in the JLA Alfred would sometimes tag along. A few times the Big Guy and Alfred would drink tea and talk about all kinds of things. The Big Guy wasn't a major player like the Green Lantern or Wonder Woman so he often had to stay behind despite his skill set. It frustrated him, but Alfred was always good company.  
The two grown ups approached Billy. He didn't stand up.  
"Hello, Billy." Clark said, cheerfully. He smiled wide.

"Hello." Bruce said, his voice the textbook definition of the word dour.  
"Hi, Mister Kent!" Billy said. He returned the cheerful smile with one of his own. His eyes shifted to Bruce. "Mister Wayne." He said. His voice dropping.  
"Thank you for meeting us on such short notice." Clark said. Behind them, Alfred got back into the car, the door closing with an audible "chunk."  
"No problem!" Billy said. "Should we go now?"  
Bruce looked at Clark with both irritation and puzzlement. "Go? Where?"  
Billy frowned, "You didn't tell him?" disappointment laced the words.  
Clark looked a tad sheepish, "No. I figured it would be a good idea if you showed us what we spoke about last night."  
The twelve year old orphan shrugged, "I guess it doesn't really matter." Billy finally stood. "It's not a far walk from here."  
"We'll drive." Bruce said, curtly. "Get in the car."  
Billy stuck his tongue out at Bruce. "Fine. " He walked over to the luxury automobile and got into the Rolls Royce's front seat.

They drove a total of three minutes to the old Fawcett City War Memorial Park. Dead leaves littered the ground (there was no money for maintenance of the park anymore,) which was fine since there was usually a lot of broken glass around for the kids to step on and cut themselves on.  
The sleet had started, but it did not deter the children playing tag in the park. The thought of going home and listening to another litany of parental fights or the belt from a drunken father out of work for the thirdconsecutive year kept the little ones out of their cramped apartments.  
"Here we are." Billy said.

Bruce wiped the fog off of the window so he could get a better look at the park. "Is this what you wanted to show me?"  
Clark nodded but let Billy talk.  
"Yeah. Mr. Kent asked me to bring the two of you here. I know some of these kids." Billy explained. "At the orphanage it's one thing. We kinda know Christmas ain't coming. It's just another day for us, but these kids." He gestured to the little ones running around, two were fighting over the only working swing, two girls chased after a little boy and vice versa. "These kids are at the age where they still don't know Christmas isn't coming. They believe in Santa Claus. They write him letters still. They are going to wake up on Christmas day with no presents or anything. Heck, these kids' parents are so broke they can't even afford a Christmas tree, let alone the presents to put under them. Shoot, these kids barely got a thanksgiving this year." A twinge of sadness laced Billy's voice. He continued, "This is the year lots of Fawcett City kids are going to stop believing in Santa Claus, Mr. Wayne. This is the year they realize that Fawcett City is a hard place to grow up, that it's mean and unforgiving and dirty and…horrible. Worse yet, they're going to stop believing in us. In the Superman and the Big Guy and the Green Lantern, too." Billy gazed out the window and half smiled at the children who, despite the weather, were still engaged in their play. "You know, these kids are going to grow up poor and some of them will turn to crime. The Big Guy's seen it and he's much older than me. Who could blame them for stealing, anyhow? When your belly is empty all the time? Some of these kids will turn to drugs because it's the only escape they can think of." Billy paused, "A few of them will get out of Fawcett City and I don't mean on a Greyhound Bus." His gaze went from the kids to the wealthy industrialist and mild mannered reporter. "But maybe this year, this could be the year when Santa doesn't let them down. When Christmas and the promise of the season and the hope and the joy and laughter comes back to Fawcett City at least for a little while. Maybe this is the year when all poor kids believe in Santa Claus again. Believe in us again."  
He didn't see it, but Alfred dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.  
"Mr Wayne," Billy said, "I know it's asking a heck of a lot, but if you can do this one thing for these kids, and all the poor kids in the country it would mean the world to them. Mr. Kent told me what he's planning and I know the Big Guy would love to help."  
Bruce didn't hear what young Batson was saying, his eyes never left the small group of children, happy and laughing despite their poverty. These kids would go home to their parents tonight. Something he had not been able to do since that fateful night in Gotham when his mother and father were gunned down by Joe Chill for the contents of his father's wallet and his mother's pearls. Suddenly he was a boy himself, scared and crying. His father's blood on his hands as he desperately tried to wake him up. His mother's face a twist of agony, fear, and sadness. He had devoted his entire life to avenging their horrific murder and he had seen some modicum of success. He knew he had become paranoid over the years, paranoid and mean and cold and hard. Bats could be like that sometimes but seeing these children reminded him of the boy he once was, innocent and kind. For a brief moment he saw his father, his smiling mustached face nodding at his long lost son. He looked over at his friend, the Man of Tomorrow. A man who did nothing but good and could never lie. A man who he secretly wished he could be sometimes and nodded.  
"Ok, dad.' Bruce whispered. No one aside from Clark could hear it.  
"Ok," Bruce said, this time to everyone in the car. "I'll do it. Audits and Luthor be damned."

Stately Wayne Manor stood atop of the private hilltop like a silent sentry. In years past the mansion would be adorned with all the trimmings and trappings of Christmas. White twinkle lights around the many windows and evergreen trees, wreathes draped around the huge oak doors, an eighteen foot Christmas tree (always Douglas Fir) decorated with gold and silver baubles which were made of both gold and silver erected in the foyer. A smaller tree, only about six feet tall, would be decorated in the living room on Christmas Eve by Bruce, Alfred, Dick, but no more. Since Dick was killed all those years ago in a savage beating by the Joker himself, Bruce failed to see the point of celebrating. His heart simply wasn't in it.  
So Wayne Manor was dark during Christmastime despite Alfred's subtle (and in some cases, not so subtle) hints about bringing the decorations down from the attic. Bruce dismissed the suggestions, throwing himself in his work as the Batman or as Bruce Wayne, wealthy industrialist or, in some cases, Bruce Wayne: Billionaire Playboy.

Tonight, however, multicolored lights blinked with the spirit of Christmas, as Bruce frantically worked through the night in his Bat cave, placing secret orders on the most sophisticated super computer money could buy and Lucius Fox could design.

Alfred approached the busy billionaire hurriedly. A pot of French press coffee and a mug on a sterling silver tray. Bruce had worked well into the night and despite the lateness of the hour, knew it would take nearly a week to get everything ready for the big day. Alfred placed the tray beside Bruce, who in typically infuriating Bruce fashion, barely noticed the old butler's presence.  
"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce grunted, never taking his eyes off of the screen. "This computer Lucius designed is a Godsend. Everything is completely encrypted. With a few financial tricks I was able to move the money around to a few accounts no one knows or cares about."  
"Like who's, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked. He poured the coffee into the mug. Bruce, barely missing a beat between keystrokes, grabbed it off of the silver tray.  
"Yours, mostly." Bruce said.

Alfred sighed, "I'm not even sure you care about my bank account these days, Master Bruce." It was the dry kind of joke Alfred was known for. He was hoping he'd at least get Bruce to smile while he worked, but he could see that look on his face. The one of iron clad determination. Once Master Bruce set his mind to something, Alfred often wondered if God himself could break his concentration.  
Bruce did not appear to hear the joke, "How is the other part of this coming along? Is that ready?"

Alfred nodded though Bruce didn't see him do it, "Yes, Master Bruce. It's all set." He paused. "Master Bruce?"  
"What is it Alfred?" Bruce grunted.  
"Stop for a moment, won't you?" He asked. To Alfred's surprise, Bruce stopped typing and turned his chair around to face him.  
"What?" Bruce asked.

"I'm happy you decided to assist Mister Kent and Mister Batson in this undertaking, but I worry you're not taking any joy in it." Alfred said. He saw Bruce furrow his brow.  
"What do you mean? This is the right thing to do." Bruce said.  
Alfred smiled gently. "If I may, Master Bruce, I'd like to tell you a story." The old butler pulled over a chair from the corner and sat down. "When I was a boy in Guildford my father was a butler just as I am. He worked for a man named Emerson Winchester. Emerson was a hard man, not cruel per se, but not known for kindness or compassion. He, like you, was a businessman and had a reputation for being ruthless in his work. Every year comparisons were made of him to Ebenezer Scrooge, but my father knew better. You see, every year he would go to the best confectionary in all of London and buy boxes of the finest chocolate in all the Empire. Guildford had three orphanages and each Christmas Eve my father and Emerson Winchester would meet with the headmaster of each orphanage and give him those boxes to give to the poor children." Alfred paused and took a breath, "There was one condition to this act of generosity. No one was to know it was he who had bought the candy for the little ones. The gift was to be anonymous." He paused again, "You see, Winchester believed that everyone, no matter how poor, deserved a little bit of joy at Christmas. My father said his old master was happiest when he was giving. Master Bruce, please, try to find joy in this."  
For a long moment, Bruce Wayne said nothing. He took a long sip of his coffee then said, "It's hard Alfred, but I see your point."  
Alfred let out a sigh. It was as good as he was going to get. He stood up. "Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?"

Bruce shook his head, "Other than telling Clark and Batson the rendezvous point, no."

Alfred nodded, "consider it done first thing in the morning, Master Bruce."  
Bruce turned and resumed his work. The sound of Alfred's patent leather shoes echoed in the mighty chamber. Overhead, six dozen bats took flight.

Bruce Wayne and Alfred stood atop Wayne Tower. Bruce scanned the sky which was illuminated by a perfect full moon. Up here once could barely register the street noise below. A small part of him was grateful that Arkham Asylum was full up for the holidays. There would likely be no Bat signal superimposed on the impressively large full moon tonight. Jim was probably home drinking eggnog with his wife and Barbara. The thought comforted him, but still he did not smile. His gaze went from the nearly midnight sky to the oversized sacks at their feet. Five million dollars' worth of stuff, all neatly and carefully wrapped in shiny red and green wrapping paper, stuffed in huge tan canvas bags. Lucius assured Bruce the bags could house the weight of three or four elephants and not so much as feel the strain and Bruce believed him. This wasn't so much Christmas magic as it was a marvel in engineering.  
A bitter wind cut through the two men. Alfred cupped his hands together and blew hot breath into them. Bruce checked his watch.  
"They're late." He said.  
Alfred took out his pocket watch from his long wool coat pocket, "They said they would be here at eleven forty-five, master Bruce. Just because you expect your business meetings to start five minutes before they're supposed to doesn't mean everyone else subscribes to your sense of punctuality."  
Bruce frowned. He was about to retort when he heard the door open from behind them. He and Alfred turned and were a little surprised to find Billy standing there.  
Alfred smiled, "Good evening, Master Batson." Billy walked toward him, his smile was more a toothy grin. The type of smile a kid his age may have on Christmas Eve.  
"How many times do I have to tell you, Alfred? Just call me Billy." He looked at the humungous bags with wide eyed wonder. "Whoa!" He exclaimed, "I can't believe it!" He scurried towards the bag closest to him and opened it. "How did you wrap all of these?"  
"While you were at school Alfred and I worked on it." The voice came from above them. It was practically beaming with good cheer, "I'm not much for gift wrapping, but Alfred here is a real whiz." Superman landed on the roof with nary a thud.  
"And I have the papercuts to prove it, Superman." Alfred said with a smile. He shook hands with the Man of Steel. Bruce gave his old ally a simple nod.

"You're sure these bags will hold all of the gifts, right Bruce?" Superman asked, "I'd hate to have to slow down because we lost a few."

Bruce nodded, "They're made of a new kind of diamond fiber, they can hold the weight. Wayne Enterprises has a contract with the Army to use these to store humanitarian supplies for air drops."  
"Good." Superman said. He tied up the bag and instructed Billy to do also.  
As Billy was tying up his bag he said, "So, I guess I had better change."  
Superman nodded.  
Billy smiled, "You guys might want to stand back. You, too, Superman. I don't want you to get hurt by the magic."

Superman and Alfred both took three steps back. Bruce stood put, the scowl never quite leaving his face.  
Billy made fists out of his small hands and took a deep breath. Then, in a prepubescent shriek shouted, "SHAZAM!"  
Then a crack of thunder and a bolt of blue lightening streaked across the cloudless sky. The air filled with the smell of ozone. Billy was no longer a boy but a man grown. He was once again the Captain of the Thunder and the Lightening. The world's Mightiest Mortal.  
Captain Marvel stood before them, the gold floral patterns on his cape twinkled in the moonlight. A residual tendril or two of magic lightening ran up and down his barrel chest. A cocky grin, the type adults sometimes wore, spread across his chiseled-from- granite face.  
"Happy birthday!" He bellowed in the deep, rich timbre of a grown man.  
Bruce looked at Superman in puzzlement. Superman returned the look.  
Alfred sighed. "I believe the Captain was making reference to Frosty the Snowman, sirs."  
A rich and hearty belly laugh echoed on the roof, "Alfred got it!" He put out his closed fist, "Bump it, Alfred!"  
Another sigh, this one a tad more exasperated than the old butler would have liked, "bumping it, sir." He bumped fists with Captain Marvel. It would be a few more minutes before Billy's immaturity dissipated.  
Superman shook hands with the magical being before him. Bruce nodded again.  
"I suggest the two of you get going." Bruce said.

Captain Marvel grinned, "This is going to be great!" He lifted the sack full of presents with all the effort a child might pick up a bird feather. He slung the bag over his broad shoulder.  
Bruce looked over at Alfred. "Before you go, gentlemen, there is one other thing I have to discuss with you."

Superman raised his eyebrow, "What's that, Bruce?"  
Bruce said, "Show them, Alfred." The old butler walked over to a darkened corner of the roof and produced two garment bags.  
"Master Bruce had me sew these specifically for tonight. I must say I am quite fond of yours, Captain." He handed the bags over to Superman and Captain Marvel.  
Captain Marvel groaned, while Superman grinned.

"A Santa suit!?" Captain Marvel exclaimed. The suit was shiny red silk complete with a n oversized black patent leather belt with a gold buckle and leather boots. A red Santa hat, also red silk, has a white cotton bauble at the end.  
"If you are going to play the part, you have to look the part." Bruce said.

"But! But I'll look ridiculous!" Captain Marvel said with another groan, "Besides, I'm not even sure I can take this costume off. I already kinda look like Santa anyway. My whole outfit is red and white and yellow and…you're enjoying this aren't you Bruce?"  
"I am."  
Superman had already put his identical Santa suit on, "Fits great, Alfred." He said.

Alfred smiled proudly, "Thank you, Superman."  
The suit was big enough for Captain Marvel to wear it over his costume. The sleeves were a touch too short, but that was ok. He decided he didn't look so foolish after all.  
In the distance the old bell tower at the Gotham Cathedral chimed the hour of midnight.  
"Time to go." Superman said, he slung the bag over his shoulder with ease. "Captain, take the west coast, I'll take the east. We'll meet in the Midwest just before dawn. Ma Kent is usually up around then, maybe she'd be kind enough to make us some pancakes." Before they left Superman turned to Bruce. "Thank you for everything, Bruce. A great many families are going to be very happy this morning."  
Captain Marvel, his bag slung over his shoulder nodded, "Your parents would be proud of you."  
To this, Bruce said nothing.  
"Come on, Superman!" Captain Marvel said with a mighty grin, "Up, up, and away!" He got a running start and with a single bound was airborne, the laws of gravity defied by ancient magic. He sped away from them in a flash, on his way to bring joy to needy families everywhere.  
Superman smiled also, he floated for a moment, and with a bellow shouted, "Ho, Ho, Ho!" And was away. Leaving Bruce and Alfred alone on the roof.  
Without looking at Bruce, Alfred said, "No matter how many times I witness it, I can never get used to seeing a man take off and fly like that."  
Bruce looked at Alfred, "It is impressive, I'll give you that."  
A pause between them was interrupted by Alfred, "Well, given that it is now Christmas I suppose now is the perfect time to give you your present."  
Bruce frowned, "Alfred, how many times do I have to tell you…"  
"That you can buy whatever you need and I shouldn't waste my money on you? Every year, and every year I abide by it but this year I believe you're going to enjoy this gift." From his long woolen coat he produced a box about a foot in length wrapped in shiny green paper with a big red bow on top. He handed it to Bruce.  
Bruce examined the box and opened it neatly.  
"Alfred…" He said, "I…I can't believe it." He looked at the old butler with dumbfounded surprise, "Cherry brandy." He whispered, "My father's favorite brand." He raised his voice slightly, "they stopped making this twenty years ago! I've searched everywhere for it. How did you…?"  
Alfred smiled, "You aren't the only one with resources, you know."  
"Thank you." Bruce said, his voice back to a hush. Something stirred in him, something that he hadn't felt for a long time. Since before Dick was killed.  
It felt a bit like hope.  
"So," Alfred said, "What shall we do now, sir?"

Bruce thought for a moment, "Lets go home, Alfred. Put on a pot of coffee, open up this bottle… and thank God for miracles." Bruce Wayne looked, up in the sky, and added, "And Supermen."  
Alfred put his hand on Bruce's shoulder, "Amen. Merry Christmas, Bruce."  
For the first time in a long time, perhaps for the first time in a year or more, Bruce Wayne, also known as The Batman, smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Alfred."  
Merry Christmas to you all.

-The End.  
Paul Landri, (with contributions by Mr. Jason Clark,) Christmas 2016.


End file.
